In Every Star, His Light Still Shines — Remembering Cami.

Camilo “Cami” Alejandro Parra.

Born on March 1st, 2017 — a boy with eyes that sparkled brighter than the stars he loved to stare at.

From the very beginning, Cami filled every room with laughter.

His favorite toys were Luigi from Mario and Woody from Toy Story. He would sing to himself for hours, humming gentle tunes that seemed to carry light wherever he went.

To his family, he wasn’t just a son or a brother.

He was sunshine.

He was pure joy.

But in December 2021, that light met its greatest challenge.

Doctors spoke words that shattered every parent’s heart —

Medulloblastoma, a rare and aggressive brain tumor.

Cami was only four years old.

From that moment, childhood changed.

Hospitals replaced playgrounds.

Tubes and machines became part of daily life.

His laughter was now accompanied by the steady rhythm of monitors and the quiet hum of ventilators.

Yet even in the darkest moments, Cami found ways to smile.

He’d crack tiny jokes with his nurses, wave to strangers in the hallway, and ask for songs instead of silence.

His courage became contagious — a spark that ignited hope in everyone who met him.

Through endless treatments, surgeries, and scans, his spirit remained unbroken. He endured what grown men could not, and he did it with grace.

There were nights his mother sat by his bedside, clutching his hand as alarms echoed in the room.

She whispered prayers no child should need.

“Please, just one more good day,” she’d say.

And often, Cami would give her that — a day with laughter, a day without fear, a day where hope returned.

But as the months went on, his body grew weary.

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The medicines grew stronger.

The good days became rare.

By October 2024, the hospital room had become their second home.

Machines surrounded him, breathing for him, fighting for him.

Every breath he took felt like a miracle.

On October 24th, his oxygen levels began to fall.

His little lungs struggled.

Doctors worked tirelessly — X-rays, chest tubes, transfusions, machines — everything humanly possible.

His team called him a fighter, and they meant it.

His mother never left his side.

She brushed his hair, held his hand, sang his favorite songs, even when his eyes were closed.

She knew he could still hear her.

Day after day, his medical updates read like war reports — chest collapsed, lungs filled with air pockets, clots, transfusions.

Each word carried weight.

Each line was a plea for a miracle.

But even in his weakest moments, Cami continued to touch lives.

 Nurses brought him small gifts. Friends sent drawings.

 Aunts, uncles, cousins — all gathered around his story, holding him with love from near and far.

Then, on the morning of November 6th, 2024, at 7:24 a.m., surrounded by those who adored him, Cami took his final breath.

He was seven years old.

The world grew quieter that morning.

His aunt, Maria Botero, wrote words that captured the ache of goodbye:

“And then I heard the angel say, ‘He’s with you every day.’
The sun, the wind, the moon, the stars will forever be around,

reminding you of the love you shared,
and the peace he has finally found.”

In that moment, heaven gained a little boy with a brave heart — a child who faced the unthinkable with love and light.

His family now carries his memory everywhere — in the way sunlight filters through curtains, in the way laughter fills a quiet house, in the songs he once loved to sing.

Cami’s story is not just one of loss.

It’s one of courage.

 Of a child who taught the world how to live, even while dying.

His mother often says that every time the wind brushes her cheek, she feels him.

Every rainbow, every star — it’s Cami saying, “I’m still here, Mama.”

The world remembers him not for how he left, but for how brightly he shone.

Seven short years — but a lifetime of love.

💛 Fly high, sweet boy.

You are free now.

 No more tubes, no more pain, no more hospital walls — just peace, stars, and endless light.

You will always be forever seven.

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There wasn’t much sleep again last night.

The nausea and vomiting always seemed to arrive just as the family began to drift into rest, stealing away the quiet they so desperately needed.

Each time it came, Avry would still find a way to be sweet, thoughtful, and polite.

She made jokes even when her face was pale, keeping her parents smiling while they cleaned and sanitized the room.

She was, even in her weakness, a little beam of light in the darkness.

The night dragged on with hallucinations and restless moans.

By morning, no one was in a rush to rise.

Avry slept in, and so did her parents, gathering strength for another long day.

But the moment her eyes opened, she was eager to dive into her craft box.

Sand art, beads, lanyards, and keychains filled the table, and with them came laughter, color, and the reminder of childhood joys.

Her mother returned from the gift shop with balloons, drawing smiles from nurses who peeked through the door.

It felt like a day that deserved celebration.

Then came a moment that melted every heart.

After a sneeze, Avry shouted, “Bless you, Mom!”

She said it again and again, louder each time, trying to gauge her own voice.

Her hearing loss had changed her volume, but her heart was unchanged—still full of kindness and manners.

Her parents smirked, holding back tears at the sweetness of her determination to bless her mother properly.

By mid-morning, the room shifted into a flurry of preparation.

Pre-meds were started for her second stem cell transplant.

Nurses gathered, and outside the door, a team prepared her cells with steady hands and focused hearts.

Her parents couldn’t help but remember the first transplant.

Back then, Avry was far too sick to sit up, too weak to create art or sip hot chocolate.

The air had been heavy, thick with fear.

But today was different.

Dr. Mian from the transplant team arrived, his eyes bright with encouragement.

He remarked on how much stronger she was now, how her time at home had given her body a chance to heal.

He praised her weight gain and explained how it gave her a precious reserve—a shield that many children did not have.

Her mother admitted how often she had worried about that very weight.

It stung to imagine her little girl growing while still trapped in this endless battle.

But she had learned to see the blessing hidden in the chubby thighs and rounded cheeks—strength for survival.

By late morning, the blood bank team arrived with thawed stem cells.

Avry watched wide-eyed as tubes, stickers, and monitors surrounded her.

This time, she noticed everything.

She sat up with pride, sipping hot chocolate, stringing beads for as long as she could before the medication pulled her into exhaustion.

The transplant came in two portions, thirty minutes apart, filled with hope and millions of cells.

Nikki, the lead nurse, guided the process with nine years of experience, her calm presence anchoring the room.

At 12:25 p.m., it was complete.

The next hours were filled with constant monitoring, every 15 minutes, until the quiet of evening finally settled in.

When Jason, the nurse practitioner, asked how the day went, her parents smiled and said: everything went well.

For once, nothing went wrong.

It was a simple joy, but one they treasured deeply.

Meanwhile, Avry’s imagination soared.

She kept asking about snow—where it lived, when she could see it.

Even amid rashes, hearing loss, and memory struggles, she dreamed of winter skies and drifting flakes.

The doctors reminded them that days 12–14 would likely bring the hardest crash, when organs felt the brunt of the chemo.

But today, they could breathe.

Still, grief lingered in the shadows.

Two little friends from their support group had earned angel wings the week before.

Another lay in ICU, fighting for every breath.

The reminders were sharp and cruel—this disease took lives swiftly, and tomorrow was never promised.

The family carried their burden with strength, but it was heavy, isolating, and exhausting.

They leaned on the friends who had stayed through 29 weeks, the ones who tore through the roof to carry them to Jesus in prayer.

Cleaning the room that evening, changing linens, sanitizing surfaces, they remembered the panic of those early days.

Back then, it felt impossible to keep up.

But now, they were a team.

Avry herself often cheered, “Teamwork!” with a high five, proud to join the effort.

Her father called them a well-oiled machine.

Avry called them “the dream team.”

They wouldn’t wish this path on anyone.

And yet, they had found joy even in the storm.

A nurse shook her head in wonder.

“How do you have this kind of attitude when you’re going through something so massive?” she asked.

And the answer was simple—grace.

The grace of God, holding them steady when everything else threatened to collapse.

Like an airplane, it all came down to attitude.

Nose down meant despair and defeat.

Nose up meant faith, hope, and trust in God’s promises.

They had lived both.

But today, they chose nose up.

Tonight, as the lights dimmed and quiet wrapped the room, gratitude filled their hearts.

Avry had made it through another day.

And for her parents, that was everything.